


rebuilding alexandria

by valety



Category: Pocket Monsters: Sun & Moon | Pokemon Sun & Moon Versions
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Past Child Abuse, POV Second Person, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 04:03:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8695870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valety/pseuds/valety
Summary: Lillie decides to get a haircut and makes another tentative step towards recovery.





	

**Author's Note:**

> [i have looked, i have seen you rebuild Alexandria, i have looked, and the peeking spoke of libraries, i have looked, and i am so delighted for who you will one day be](http://inkskinned.com/post/134500839509/i-have-looked-i-have-seen-you)
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> warnings for references to past abuse and a depiction of a panic attack

You spend nearly fifteen minutes pacing the cobblestone outside the hair salon, trying to find the courage to actually go inside.  

“This is silly, isn’t it?” you murmur. You can feel Nebby squirming inside your bag. “I’m sure she wouldn’t be having this much trouble.”

You wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for _her,_ the trainer you had met back on the bridge. At the time, her thick, heavy black hair had fallen nearly to her shoulders, but then it had been a pair of golden, curly pigtails. Now, it’s the colour of wine and cut in a sleek, dramatic bob. At least, you think it is; you haven’t seen her in a while. She might have changed it yet again.

Every change has been dramatic, and yet her smile has stayed the same. The warmth of her hand in yours has stayed the same as well. It had been enough to make you think, _maybe I can do that too._

Yet the steps leading up to the salon—one, two, three, four, five, perhaps, by your count—seem to make up an insurmountable distance. You’ve never done something like this before, after all. What if you regret it? More importantly, how do you even _do_ it? Do you simply walk inside and ask someone to cut your hair off? What if they laugh at you? You don’t think you could bear to be a joke.

“Maybe this was a mistake after all,” you murmur, speaking to your duffel bag. “Forget it. Let’s go back to the library.”

This time, your bag is still. There are no anxious or eager squirmings from the creature held within.

Uh oh.

You glance down. The zipper has become undone, and when you raise your head again, you see Nebby’s shimmering body, a tiny nebula, standing near the door of the salon and trilling happily.

“Nebby!” you cry, but then the door opens. As a customer exits, Nebby slips inside, and suddenly, you’re no longer paralyzed. Your legs are instead taking you forward without your consent. You can no longer think about your anxiety; you can only think of saving Nebby before anybody sees them.

The creature practically leaps into your arms the very moment that you cross the salon’s threshold, returning happily to your bag without much fuss. It’s only once you’ve safely zipped it up again and breathed a sigh of relief that the reality of what just happened clicks.

 _“Nebby,”_ you hiss. A sound like sparkling laughter drifts out of your bag, but before you can properly scold them, a woman’s voice says, “Welcome to the salon.” 

Your freeze like a deerling in the headlights.

The woman, however, only smiles. “What would you like to do today?” she asks.  

“Ah.” You look away, suddenly too embarrassed to maintain eye contact.

Further into the room you can see rows of chairs and tables and mirrors. As the people sitting in the chairs have their hair cut and washed and coloured, their pokémon mill about: a pikachu, a spinda, a sparking magnemite.

Somehow, it’s the sight of the pokémon that reassures you. They seem happy enough, chattering away to one another as their trainers have their hair styled, and eventually, you manage to find the strength to say, “Could you…cut my hair?”

“We can certainly do that,” the woman says, nodding. “I won’t be doing it myself, of course, but Barbara should be available. Could I get your name?”

“Lillie,” you say, voice faltering. You feel Nebby twisting with excitement in your bag. You have to bite your lip to keep yourself from chastising them out loud. You instead gently place your hand on your bag and Nebby grows still.

You don’t have to wait for very long. In no time at all, you’re ushered to a chair near the back of the room, where a woman—a real beauty, dressed in a fashionable white minidress, blonde hair twisted in a stylish knot—is waiting for you.

“Could you take off your hat?” she asks.

You do so with a blush, setting it down on the table she indicates. Of course you should have thought of that yourself.

“You can put your bag down, too,” she says, but this time you hug it closer.

“I’d rather not, thank you,” you say in what you hope is a firm manner.

The stylist shrugs and gestures for you to sit down.  

“So tell me,” she says once your braids have been undone and you’re sitting before the mirror. “What are you looking for today?”

“Ah—” you rack your brain for a reasonable response. “Short? I mean…I would like it shorter, please.”

The woman laughs, not unkindly. “How short? You have so much, I’d hate to cut off more than you’re comfortable with.”

“Short,” you repeat, again as firmly as you can. An image comes to mind of a trainer with hair and a smile like the setting sun. “Maybe…to my chin?” you venture, a little less certainly than before, but the stylist nods as though that’s not unreasonable.

In the mirror, she leans forward and holds two fingers up against your hair at jaw level. “Here?”

You nod. That length would certainly be dramatic. Maybe nobody would recognize you with hair that short. A bubble of tremulous laughter rises in your throat. What a concept, to not look like yourself.

“Yes,” you say out loud, still nodding. “Maybe…maybe even shorter!”

“Well,” the stylist says, straightening back up with a grin. “Let’s see how you feel once I start cutting.”

She drapes a dark cape over your shoulders and ties it flush against your neck. Underneath, you clutch the bag with Nebby even closer. You can feel them humming through the canvas, a sound almost like a purr.

The woman’s hands begin to wander through your hair. She’s talking, saying something about layers and framing your face, but her hands are still in your hair, fluffing it and combing through with gentle fingers. Gentle, yet firm. Maybe it’s just your imagination, but the smell of chemicals and hairspray seems to be growing stronger. Her dress is pure, pure white.

“Maybe not that short,” you say abruptly.

In the reflection, the woman raises her eyebrows. “Here?” she says, once again leaning forward, but this time moving her fingers slightly lower, now just past your chin.

“Yes. No.” You shake your head. “I’m…I’m not sure anymore.”

The woman gives a hum of contemplation, looking thoughtful. She still seems perfectly calm, and you hope you do as well, but inside, your heart is stuttering.

You’ve never been placed before a mirror before, but you’ve been in this position nonetheless, you're realizing. You know what it’s like to have a woman combing through your hair so she can fix it—fix it because it’s broken, no good, imperfect. Her fingers were always gentle, too, until suddenly they weren’t, until suddenly they grew sharp and tugged and yanked as they put everything to rights. There, she’d say as you were coughing from the hairspray. Now it will stay put. Now you're beautiful. 

On your lap, you feel Nebby writhing. You’re squeezing the bag too tightly. You let go, patting the canvas apologetically.

“Hey,” the stylist says. Her hands have grown still, no longer combing through your hair. Her expression is calm, but yours is not; you are shaking, breathing rapid and staccato like your heartbeat. “It’s okay. You don’t need to get your hair cut if you don’t want to.”

 _I do,_ you think, but out loud you say, “I’m sorry.”

For a moment, the stylist doesn’t speak. She merely watches through the mirror as you collect yourself, gathering your breath the best you can, in and out, in and out.

Once you’re calm, the stylist says, “Maybe just a trim for now?”

“A trim?” you repeat. You’d half expected her to kick you out, not offer an alternative. You may not have much experience with salons, but surely most salon patrons don’t end up on the verge of tears because the stylist touched them.

“Yeah.” The woman lifts a lock of your hair, placing her fingers at the very tip to show you how much she means. “To take care of any split ends you might have. That’ll keep it strong and healthy.”

Like pruning. Cutting off what’s dead to make room for new growth. You almost burst out laughing.

“That…should be fine,” you manage to say. instead Then, yet again: “I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize, sweetheart,” the stylist replies, dropping her air of unflappable calm in order to flash you a grin. “It’s your hair, after all. You have a right to decide what happens to it.”

You don’t have a response to that.

She washes your hair with something very much like tenderness. The water is warm, not hot, and her hands are slow and careful. Her fingers don’t turn sharp, and if you close your eyes, you can almost remember how it was before, but when you open them again, you’re met only with the glaring overhead lights of the salon.

True to her word, the stylist only trims the edges. You’re stiff the entire time, rigid with tension and memories of sharp commands to _hold still._ But she doesn’t take the opportunity to twist and tweak and shape you as she will, instead asking “is this okay?” and “what do you think of this?”

By the time she’s finished and removes the dark smock, you’re almost disappointed. A part of you wish it could have lasted longer.

“There,” she says. “A wash and a trim, just as promised. Doesn’t your hair look healthier now?”

“Yes,” you lie. You can’t actually tell, but it _feels_ nice. Your head feels lighter, and your limbs are loose and wobbly, as though you’ve just received a massage. Maybe this is how pokémon feel after they’ve been groomed, you think.

You almost forget to pay until the stylist moves to the counter expectantly. You hadn’t thought about the cost at all, you realize with a flush of shame. Fortunately, the card you have is apparently enough to cover it.  

“You know,” the stylist says as your receipt is printing. “You strike me as the type who doesn’t experiment with her look much. I get being reluctant to do something long-lasting like a cut or colour, but there _are_ more temporary options. You'd look cute with pigtails. Have you ever tried those?”  

“Not…really,” you reply, taking the receipt and slipping it into your bag. Hopefully Nebby doesn’t eat it. “I don’t think I could, to be honest.”

“Of course you could,” the woman answers simply.

You take a step back towards the door. You’re unsure of how to respond to such a comment. The stylist’s voice is kind, patient, even borderline indulgent, but it makes you feel self-conscious; it’s as though she thinks there’s something strange about the fact you’ve never played with your own hair. As though she thinks _you’re_ strange.    

Perhaps she senses your discomfort, because she doesn’t press the subject further. Instead, the stylist says, “If you ever _do_ decide to take the plunge and get a cut, be sure to ask for me. Hair like yours is unusual. I’d love an opportunity to work with it.”

You have no idea if ‘unusual’ is a compliment or not.

“Maybe,” you say, taking another step back towards the door. “I have to go now.”

You flee.

You don’t stop until you’ve reached the Malie Library and are able to collapse on the empty bench outside. Inside your bag, Nebby chitters in distress from having been bounced about so violently. You know that you should comfort them, but you can’t; all you can think about is how close you’d come to doing something dangerous.

At some point, Nebby manages to worm their way out of the bag. For once, they don’t run off, instead curling up on your lap. For once, you don’t scold them. Instead, you simply hold them close.

“I’m silly, aren’t I?” you say with a shaky laugh. “I can’t even get my hair cut like a normal girl. It probably shouldn’t have been such a big deal. Why was I so nervous?

Nebby doesn’t answer, of course. But they hum, a warm vibration, and it makes you want to cry.

You pull them closer and don’t say another word for a long, long time.

But finally, you stand.

“Some other time,” you say to the creature in your arms. “I’ll try again some other time. Maybe with that trainer. She knows how to do these things. She’ll help.”

What you don’t say is _she is strong._ What you don't say is  _she will keep me safe._ But you think it, of course. Because no matter what you tell yourself, you know perfectly well that what just happened wasn’t about not knowing how haircuts work. It was about the memory of a mother’s disapproving gaze, the fear of having to explain yourself, the worry that she’ll either deem you permanently ruined or in need of her care once again.

You’re not sure which option would be worse.

Nebby trills, concerned, but you smile down at them, pushing back the worry as best as you can.

You and your hair are not what matter most, you remind yourself, bending down and opening your bag for them to climb inside. _Nebby_ is what matters most. Running away wasn’t about you, it was about them. You can worry about your hair and your mother later.  

But as you go to enter the library, you can’t help but catch a glimpse of your reflection in the window. 

When you do, you see for the first time since you left the salon that you forgot to do your braids again. Your hair has been left hanging loose, like sunlight pooling over your shoulders, tousled by the island winds. You’d never dared forget them before.

To anybody else, it wouldn’t matter. But for you—for you, it’s enough to make you pause.

Maybe this can be it, you think. Maybe this is the sort of change that you can handle. It’s a small change, sure, but it’s a change nonetheless. A newfound freedom—a small, comfortable freedom. Not a dramatic reinvention of the self, but a disruption of the pattern that you’re even now trying to distance yourself from.

That can be enough for now, can’t it?

It has to be. It _has_ to be enough.

You’ve only just stepped out of the cage in which you’ve lived your entire life. But with every step you take, the more distance you put between yourself and the past, the more you begin to realize just how broad the world is after all. The world is vast, but maybe you—in all your flaws and imperfections, in your clumsiness and messy hair and clothes that you can no longer keep pristine and white—can be enough for it.  

You take a deep breath. You adjust the straps of your bag. You meet the eyes of your reflection and do not smile. And then, you step into the library, feeling slightly taller than before.


End file.
